


cities that feel like home

by sarveniraven



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Witches, M/M, Multi, Other, R hasn't even met enjolras yet sorry, SOON FRIENDS, Witches, and short, it's introductory, so no exr yet, soon, this is just the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarveniraven/pseuds/sarveniraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Witchcraft is illegal. If you see something, say something.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grantaire is new to the city and strives to connect, to feel the beat and the energy and the life of the place. Enjolras has been here his whole life, a passionate blaze that could light up the whole place. Grantaire may not believe the revolution will work, but he believes in the fire in Enjolras’s eyes, and that’s all he needs, really.</p><p>“For those who are lost, there will always be cities that feel like home.” –Simon Van Booy</p>
            </blockquote>





	cities that feel like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For a few moments, he eyed the letters and then shook his head. He walked away with a small smile curving up one corner of his mouth. Revolution was a fantasy for the dreamers, and he'd stopped being a dreamer long before he arrived in this sprawling city._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! This is a test run of my new fic, an e/R city witches AU. Any and all feedback would be appreciated! I'm still not sure I want to do more, so if you like it, please comment!

 

 

_Use of magic is illegal._

_Perpetrators will be punished._

 

The posters gleamed behind layers of reinforced glass, framed and prominently displayed at bus stops, subway stations, and on the sides of buildings, many of them defaced with quick marker scribbles and taped-on messages. Billboards across the city held similar sentiments, and smaller flyers were tacked and taped and scattered wherever there was even a few inches of free space. Crumpled, once-white paper proclaiming the dangers of witchcraft cluttered the gutters and blew in the wind over side streets and back alleys. Downtown, where money was spent more freely to keep the city looking rich and metropolitan for tourists and visitors, television screens loomed above the main thoroughfares and boasted the same message, "Witchcraft is punishable by law." The words were inescapable, prominently displayed as they were, and each poster and billboard and flyer flashed the 24-hour hotline with entreaties to call and report any suspicious activity.

 

But sometimes, when the right people looked long enough at one of these posters, a smaller message would be found just a blink and a double-take away. Glamoured meticulously to look like just another marker-scribbled graffiti message, hidden from the eyes of non-magical folk and inscrutable unless a witch payed attention, hastily-scribbled black letters spelled out another message:

 

_Revolution is our responsibility._

_Cafe Musain, Tuesdays at midnight._

 

Most people passed by without a second glance, witches and non-magics alike. But Grantaire, stepping off the train with his backpack, suitcase, and portfolio, saw past the glamour almost immediately, so quickly he blinked at the rapid change. For a few moments, he eyed the letters and then shook his head. He walked away with a small smile curving up one corner of his mouth. Revolution was a fantasy for the dreamers, and he'd stopped being a dreamer long before he arrived in this sprawling city.

 

Pigeons hopped and fluttered away from his scuffed boots as he walked, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. Grantaire ignored them for now, knowing he'd see plenty of them later, once he'd unpacked at the new apartment. The cloying scent of city waste and smog burned his nostrils as he clambered up the station steps to street level. Squinting through the faint haze of the city to eye the taller buildings that clogged the horizon a few miles off, he smiled. He would be just another face here, buried in the noise and the crowds and the life of the city. Tapping into the energy of the place would be child's play, and easily concealed.

 

Raising his arm to hail a cab, Grantaire already felt more at home in this unfamiliar city than he ever had in his dozens of residences over the years.

 

·*·*·*·*·*·

 

The apartment building was a towering thing, stretching up at least a dozen stories toward the grey sky. Its brick walls must have been red once, but they'd faded to a dull rust-brown. Above the double doors, a sign as dingy as the rest of the building read "Goldenwood Lofts," and Grantaire gave a snort at the poor attempt to make the complex sound more luxurious. Depositing a twenty and a handful of crumpled ones into the cabbie's expectant hand, Grantaire clambered out of the yellow car with his luggage. Immediately, a short, middle-aged man rushed out of the building's front doors, looking harried.

 

"One of the new tenants, I presume?" the man asked with no preamble. Grantaire nodded and the man continued. "I'm your landlord, then. Call me Felix. You'll be on the very top floor, apartment 1511. Here are your keys; the elevator is straight ahead through the doors."

 

Felix hurried off down the street without a word more, and Grantaire dragged his luggage inside. The lobby of the apartment building wasn't much more than a wall of mailboxes, a set of gloomy stairs off to the left, a hallway next to it with a flickering light, and one single elevator straight ahead. Wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of the room, Grantaire jabbed at the elevator button and waited, trying not to flinch at the groan behind the silver doors.

 

"Sketchy-ass elevator," he muttered as there was a ding and the doors slid open with loud protests. The whole thing shuddered after he pressed the button for the fifteenth floor, and it began to ascend slowly, occasionally creaking and wobbling under Grantaire's shoes. It reeked like old mothballs, dust, and moldy cheese. He vowed never to take this stupid fucking elevator again.

 

Finally, the light indicating the fifteenth floor lit with a ding. Grantaire tripped on his own feet as he scrambled out of the elevator, swearing colorfully, and caught himself on the wall before he could fall, calloused hands scrabbling on the yellowed wallpaper until he was steady. Exhaling sharply, he straightened up and marched down the hall to his new apartment. With any luck, Joly and Bossuet would already be there.

 

Not bothering to fumble with the keys he'd shoved into his back pocket, Grantaire glared at the door’s lock until it clicked and shouldered it open. The place was completely empty. With a half-smile at his new home, he dropped his bags to survey it.

 

Hardwood floors stretched through every room, gleaming with a recent cleaning. He stood in a wide, open room with a fairly spacious kitchen to his left and a living room directly ahead. Along the far wall was a wide picture window with a glass door to one side that opened onto a balcony. Three doors marched along the wall on his right, the first two opening into rooms and the third a small bathroom. Another room sat just beyond the kitchen. Somehow, the whole place was nicer than the rest of the building so far and smelled like nothing but lemon cleaner; Grantaire sighed relief.

 

Depositing his backpack and suitcase into the smallest room, he headed into the middle-sized room with his portfolio, which he deposited gently against the wall. As promised by his to-be roommates, he was afforded the two smaller bedrooms, one for his own living space and the other for a studio, and he planned to make good use of both. Stroking his stubbled chin thoughtfully, he first conjured large sheets of thick plastic, immediately covering the floor, walls, and ceiling until the room was well-protected. The plastic took less effort than keeping up with constant cleaning and mess-resistance spells. Then, along the far corner, he conjured the messy drafting table from his last house, still cluttered with his paints and pencils, a new set of sturdy shelves from the nearest Ikea (they wouldn’t miss a few shelves from their massive stockroom, he figured), and all his old supplies to stock both. In the other corner he placed his worktable and easel. That finished, he nodded and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him and placing his usual locking spells with a cursory wave of his hand.

 

Since Joly and Bossuet still hadn't arrived, Grantaire produced a few stale rolls from his pockets and made his way to the balcony. A gentle wind, bringing him the scent of street vendor hot dogs, spring’s tree blossoms, and the regular city odor, pulled at his dark curls and the edges of his jacket. It prodded inquiringly at him, and he grinned. Twirling a finger, he allowed the breeze to dance around him, swirling through his jacket and over his skin. A soft giggle, more of a sigh in the draft of air than an actual laugh, reached his ears before he let his hand drop and the little wind continued on its way.

 

Continuing to the wide rail of the balcony, he crumbled the rolls he held and spread the crumbs out across a broad stretch of the ledge. That done, he settled in to wait next to the crumb spread, heels kicking against the brick. In the distance, sirens and traffic noise blended into an odd symphony, punctuated by the occasional yell. Sunset fast approached, painting the sky with a smudged palette of brilliant pinks, oranges, and purples.

 

A flap of wings broke Grantaire's reverie as three pigeons alighted on the ledge next to the crumbs and began to feast. The fading sunlight, diffused through the smog, illuminated the greys, pinks, and flecks of white on each bird. The trio cooed out soft noises of contentment, and when the crumbs were gone, they eyed Grantaire expectantly. Crumbling a piece of leftover roll in one hand, he held out a handful of crumbs. The boldest of the birds hopped up onto his hand, small talons pressing almost painfully into Grantaire's palm.

 

"Hello, pretty bird," he cooed, brushing a finger over the bird's back, between its wings. "If you'll let me, I'm going to do a spell. It won't hurt a bit."

 

Even after the crumbs had been eaten, the pigeon stayed, cocking its head at Grantaire. He took it as consent. Tracing a line down the middle of the bird's back again, he left a trail of soft green light this time that branched out to cover the whole creature in shimmering veins of magic. The light flared once and then faded, sinking under the bird's feathers and into its skin.

 

A jolt of white-hot energy flared under Grantaire's own skin briefly before fading, and with a smile he thanked the bird. It bobbed its head in response, and he tested the new connection as it flapped away. With a moment of concentration, he was the pigeon--Marie, he named her when he couldn’t pronounce the name she gave--and saw through her eyes. Amused, Marie dove toward a tree, and Grantaire felt the drop.

 

 _You are a strange two-legs, to connect with me in this way_ , she commented, amused at his unsteady connection every time she dove and twirled in the air. _Do you wish for wings?_

 

 _No_ , Grantaire replied in the same mind-speak _. I need perspective and connection. This city has its own magic, and I must understand it to use it. You are a part of it as much as any two-legs._

 

_Two-legs with the light are always the oddest of the flock._

 

Marie said nothing more, and with a quick farewell and another thanks, Grantaire returned to his own mind. One connection to the city made, he was content to settle against the balcony ledge and stare out at the city.

 

"R!" A yell from inside the apartment made him turn. He was mobbed before he could really react, Joly and Bossuet hugging him forcefully from both sides.

 

"Jesus!" Grantaire cried, shoving at them halfheartedly but grinning all the same.

 

“No, I’m Joly.”

 

Without dignifying the comment with a response, he hip checked both of them, but they remained clamped around his waist. "You act like it's been years, I swear to god."

 

"Well. I mean. It has, in fact, been years," Joly pointed out, still squeezing Grantaire harder than was strictly necessary.

 

"Two long years!" Bossuet cried, turning a brown-eyed gaze full of fake tears on R.

 

"Fucking nerds," Grantaire commented fondly, hugging them back, and, arm-in-arm, the three of them retreated to the apartment.


End file.
